


Dave: suck.

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Betrayal, Blood Drinking, M/M, Mind Control, Unhealthy Relationships, Vampires, triangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay," you say, your mouth dry, "okay. What the fuck is this supposed to be?"</p>
<p>Bro smirks at you from the couch. "Dessert," he says. His eyes glow through the douchebag shades he took off some kid you guys ate last month. He pets John's hair absently and John does nothing, a puppet whose strings aren't getting pulled. "Can't tell me you don't want him, kiddo."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dave: suck.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eighth_chiharu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighth_chiharu/gifts).



You like John. He doesn't know what you are, of course, because you're not stupid enough to tell people (anymore): 95 percent of the time they don't believe you and the other 5 percent they flip out. You tell him you're an albino and that's why you don't go out in the sun. You tell him you're allergic to sunscreen and that's why you can't just use a goopy chemical fix for your problem. You have a whole list of things you've told him you're allergic to by now, and you've debated just deadpanning _I'm allergic to food_ as part of the endless shitty game of truth chicken you play around him. (Truth chicken is a form of solitaire. Like most forms of solitaire it's easy to lose.)

But despite the uneasy stew of evasion and bullshit that you're constantly serving up, he's still willing to hang out with you. He shows you the stupid movies in his collection—movies are _fucking amazing_ , okay, even the stupid ones; you've loved watching the art form develop—and cheers you on when you do pointlessly risky skateboard tricks and clowns around when you feel a brooding spell coming on. There's one time he makes monster fangs out of french fries and gives you this completely sincere bug-eyed menacing snarl and something about it makes you laugh so hard you get a stitch in your ribs.

He's your human friend, basically. You can hang out with him and feel like just a dude fucking around, nothing serious, nothing dangerous, just... bros. You like John. 

That, of course, was a big mistake.

You come home at about half an hour to sunrise, where by "home" you mean the bullshit loft Bro rigged in an empty water tower because he's really into being not human, and the jumps you have to make to get up here are not within human limits in the least. When you pry open the hatch and drop down into your front-hall analogue, though, you smell something human. Human and alive, the musk-warmth of skin, not just the sharpness of blood.

The hatch is curtained off from the living space, unliving space, whatever, and a thin line of light glows between the bottom of the curtains and the drum-steel floor. "Bro?" you call. You have the proverbial bad feeling about this.

"Welcome home, little man," he drawls, that exaggerated inflection that you know he knows you hate. You really don't want to pull back the curtain. But you won't be able to relax until you know just how much fuckery to expect this time.

You step through the curtain.

John doesn't look up. He's sitting on the floor, head resting on Bro's thigh, eyes blank and glassy as he stares off at some mystery point in the middle distance. He's shirtless, his skin faintly glossy with sweat.

"Okay," you say, your mouth dry, "okay. What the fuck is this supposed to be?"

Bro smirks at you from the couch. "Dessert," he says. His eyes glow through the douchebag shades he took off some kid you guys ate last month. He pets John's hair absently and John does nothing, a puppet whose strings aren't getting pulled. "Can't tell me you don't want him, kiddo."

"What, you brought him here to turn him? He'd hate that," you say. He would. John would be miserable, dragged away from his world and his friends and the sun and his stupid fucking french fries.

"Didn't think you'd want to just chew him up and spit him out," Bro says.

Your hands clench into fists at your sides. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

Bro snickers. "Yeah." He tugs on John's hair, just a little hey-pay-attention gesture. "Up you go, babycakes. Come sit in daddy's lap."

John gets up, spills himself across Bro's thighs. He's graceless. He's quiet. He should be animated and laughing and he's not and your guts are a tight knot of fury and terror. You can't beat Bro in a strife—you're pretty sure one of the reasons he turned you so young was to give himself a permanent advantage—and you wouldn't dare try anyway when he could snap John's neck the instant you pissed him off.

"Kinda looks like you haven't even had a taste yet," Bro says, stroking the side of John's neck. "You got some kind of thing about making yourself wait?"

"We're _friends_ ," you say. "Do you even remember what friends are, _Ambrose_?"

For a second he honest to fuck bares his teeth at you, and you know you've fucked up. He hates being reminded when his name is unfashionable. It's a cheap shot, which is basically the only kind of shot you have in your arsenal right now but that doesn't mean you should take one whenever you get a chance. Because now Bro is smirking again and it's mean, and he says "Nah," like it's casual when you know it's anything but.

He murmurs something into John's ear, still watching you, and John's hands go to the buttons of his fly.

"Dude, I get it," you say. "You're in charge. You always have been."

Bro nods, like you're not telling him anything new. He doesn't do anything to stop John from kicking off his sneakers and squirming out of his jeans. Your one human friend is naked in your shithead sire's lap and this is your fault for putting him on Bro's radar in the first place.

"You've made your point," you say when Bro unzips. "You don't have to actually hurt him for me to believe you could."

"Who's hurting him?" Bro asks. He runs a hand up the inside of John's thigh, and you try not to look because that's why he's doing it. "Kid's nice and relaxed, gonna open up real sweet." He tongues one fang, lingering, drawing attention to the double meaning there. "Besides, you're gonna come over here and suck me wet anyway."

Fuck him for not even demanding it. "You're the worst thing Texas ever puked up in its entire history," you say as you go over there.

Bro chuckles. "And you ain't even in the top ten." _Which is why it's going like this_ is unsaid and obvious. You drop to your knees and the metal floor clangs under you. He's got his dick out already, hand wrapped around the base to hold it up for you, and you think some really fond thoughts about just biting the fucking thing off but you're not going to do it. You never do.

You lick your lips, get your mouth wrapped around his dick, and try to figure out where your gag reflex is tonight. You wonder if it's worth trying to get him off, trying to distract him with a blowjob and hope he forgets he wanted to wreck John. Odds of it actually working don't seem very good, but how long will it take you to forgive yourself if you don't try?

You work your way into a rhythm, swallowing when his dick touches your throat, eyes closed against the tear reflex. Back when you were human you wouldn't have thought you could reach a point where sucking dick was such a non-event, but here you are. Stuck for how to say thanks, or sorry, or happy anniversary, or don't break my only friend? Turns out there's a blowjob for every occasion.

He pulls you off before you can get very far, casually tossing you back on your ass. Your throat's raw and you're still plenty close enough to watch as he lifts John up and guides him back down to sit impaled on the fat shaft of Bro's dick. You look up at John's face and sick relief floods your gut at the way his expression hasn't changed, still soft and dreamy in Bro's thrall.

You're such a piece of shit. Bro's making your one normal friend into a mindless fuckpuppet and you helped and now you're _relieved_ that he's too out of it to protest. You watch him sway in Bro's lap, his dick flopping between his thighs, this dumb little bounce that would be funny if this whole thing weren't so fucked up.

Then he moans, breathy and weird, and you look up from his crotch to realize that Bro has just bitten him, right at the juncture of neck and shoulder. It's a shitty place to bite for heavy feeding, off-target, more the kind of thing you do when you're just having a snack because someone tastes good. Bro licks the bite. You can smell the blood and it makes you drool.

"Come here," Bro says. "Make your little friend feel nice." He gives John's limp dick a squeeze in case there was some way you could have missed his meaning.

"Yeah, wouldn't want to hurt yourself going to the effort of a reacharound," you say, like an asshole who doesn't know when to shut up. Bro bites again and John's back arches. A drop of blood runs dark down his chest from the first bite. 

You do what you're fucking told. You get over there and bury your face in John's crotch and when it's soft, which it still is when you get there, his whole dick fits in your mouth without you having to even work for it. His skin tastes good, salt and spice and the earthy warm musk of live human sex. He swells on your tongue, getting thicker and stiffer and you're almost doing a decent job of not thinking about the amount of blood under that ultrafine skin until Bro drops a hand down to smear a bright coppery taste of it across your top lip.

_That's_ when you choke, when the hunger blazes through your nerves and makes you ache in a way sex can't anymore. Your rhythm falters at the same time that Bro's picks up, so you're basically just trying to roll with it as he fucks John down your throat. You really want to believe that when you slip up it's inevitable.

Because you do slip up, fail to move with one of those erratic thrusts and catch the ridge of John's cockhead with one fang and it's a _tiny_ wound but your mouth still fills with blood and you're whimpering as you swallow.

"There we go," Bro says from somewhere above you, sounding way too entertained. "Finally getting with the program, huh kiddo?"

You growl, and his hand finds your hair, ruffling it condescendingly before he pulls you down harder into John's lap. You swallow more blood, trying to fight the feeding euphoria and failing so goddamn hard. John tastes amazing and you wish you hadn't found out like this and _sucking his dick is giving you life_ , this is the worst ever.

"Hey," Bro says, because he has a sixth fucking sense for when your hyperbole cannon has gone off prematurely, "catch."

Two things happen almost simultaneously: you get a fresh mouthful of thick, bitter come, and John's body goes tense all over. "Fuck," he says, "what—Dave?"

He sounds panicked, terrified, and when you look up he's staring down at you with his eyes wide and this expression like his best friend just punched his trust right in the gut.

You grab control of his mind as soon as your eyes meet and shut him down, adrenaline-shocked so hard you think you're going to be sick. It's an instinctive reaction, self-defense when someone wakes up during feeding. You don't have Bro's control, and when you pull back from the blowjob John is completely loose-limbed and slack. His eyes are open but he's not in any meaningful way conscious. Bro's still fucking him.

"Sweet kid you found here, little man. Tastes great. Nice easy fuck. Let's keep him around."

If you say no you know exactly where this goes, and it ends with John's body in a shallow grave somewhere out in the desert. You can't let that happen. You can't. 

But that doesn't make you feel like any less of a traitorous shithead when you say, "Sure, Bro. Let's."


End file.
